Paris, August 22, 1846.

Our letters crossed. I hoped that yours would bring me better news, I mean to say, the announcement of your speedy return. Before your departure you seemed to be in a much greater hurry to see me again. I have complained for a long time of the too great variance between your saying and your doing. Apparently you are spending your time so happily, so agreeably, that you do not bestow even a thought to the time of your return to Paris. You ask me if this will give me much pleasure, which is making game of me most wickedly.

I am horribly desolate here, even more so than when travelling, and yet I am too busy to have time to notice the absence of people from Paris; but that makes no difference to me. It is you, it is our walks for which I long. If you liked them half as much as you say, you would not keep me waiting for them so long. I thought of them during all the time of my journey, and now I think of them more than ever. But you, you have forgotten them.

Paris is absolutely minus intelligent inhabitants. Hosiers and representatives are the only people left in the city, which amounts to the same thing. I expect to leave early in September for Cologne. Shall I see you again before then? I fear very much that you will reply that it is not worth coming for so little. Thus half of our year will have passed and you away or ill. I am tempted to go to —— to see you, and I should yield probably if you gave me any encouragement. However, we shall see.

Good-bye. I am in too bad a humour to write more. I end as I began, by repeating that nothing would give me more pleasure than to see you, especially if the pleasure were shared by you. Otherwise, stay where you are as long as you will.